


Undercover

by let_them_be_happy



Series: three (and a half) times owen & tati met [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: 3 times trope, Bad Aliases, Gen, Historical Inaccuracies, Historical References, i can't write historical for shit, i tried to make it realistic but let's be honest here, owen & tati are bros and no one can change my mind, owen's hella gay but actually just hella bi, owen's hella gay for curt and he's known him for like five minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let_them_be_happy/pseuds/let_them_be_happy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tatiana says Owen's name before Curt does - doesn't that say something about her? What if she'd worked with him before and that's why she recognized him? </p><p>1950 Russia - that's where it all started with a little almost 16 year old Russian redhead and a little too green 20 year old British spy. </p><p>Alternate title: Irene Watson</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> this hasn't been beta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

It started off like any other undercover mission Owen had been on - locate the target, extract the information, get back home before supper.

Then he had the misfortune of meeting the target, one Anatoli Volkov - a _gulag_ warden with intimate ties to the head of the _suki_ group in the largest _gulag_ in Russia. Volkov was currently attending the largest event of the Russian season, clearly hoping to rub elbows with some very powerful men in hopes of getting better supplies for the _suki_ in the “Bitch Wars”, as they were being so named.

Owen’s job was to - ahem - “catch” Volkov’s attention and retrieve the necessary information that way, whether the actual “deed” was to be done or not. He was young enough and pretty enough to catch Volkov’s attention, never mind the fact that he might’ve been one of the youngest agents in MI6 (he was most definitely one of the youngest agents) and that his superiors had thought that he was much too inexperienced to take on this assignment.

Ha, he’d show them. (He’d had such high hopes for this assignment.)

Owen caught sight of Volkov at this soiree fairly quickly, only to become distracted by the young, very pretty and _very_ deadly redhead on his arm. Well, there went Plan A. Plan B, the more subtle approach, was then put into action, but not before Owen thought that the redhead caught sight of him. Judging by the look on her face, she’d recognized him - which meant that not only was England recruiting younger and younger, so was Russia and had been for a while if Owen trusted his instincts. (She didn’t say anything to Volkov, something Owen only realized after the disaster of an assignment was over.)

Volkov approached Owen soon enough, the glint in the warden’s eyes telling Owen that Volkov had bought his act without hesitation. Owen introduced himself as Nikon Kuznetsov, a young up and coming entrepreneur with friends in high places who were helping him get started in the business world.

Everything had been going fine up until the point when the two of them got to Volkov’s hotel room. The redhead from earlier had appeared from behind the door and knocked Volkov out with a swift blow to the head, grabbing Owen by the hand and dragging him out of the building before any of Volkov’s security realized something was wrong.

It was only when they were a few blocks away that Owen even got a word in.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!” He stared at the girl, no older than sixteen at most, as she leaned against the alley wall opposite him, the two of them breathing heavily in the 6°C (around 43°F for the Americans) Russian fall.

The girl glared at Owen from underneath her straight-cut bangs. “You are welcome,” she spat at him, her heavy accent bringing Owen to the reality of the fact that he had just been assisted (well, possibly assisted at this point) by what was probably a young Russian assassin. She huffed out an angry breath, crossing her arms over her chest. “I doubt you value your life at all if you are saying such things to me.”

Owen stared at her incredulously. “What are you talking about?” The redhead stared right back at him, waiting for Owen to figure out what she meant while still catching her breath. “You mean to say that you think he was going to kill me?”

She scoffed. “More like have his men kill you, but yes, that is what I mean.” She glanced around the corner in the direction they had come from, obviously wary that someone had seen them run into the alley. Content for the moment that no one had seen them, she turned her attention back to Owen, who seemed to have some difficulty with the concept that someone could have recognized him.

Then Owen realized that the girl in front of him had recognized him, so who was he to assume that someone else couldn’t have recognized him just as easily? “What’s your name?”

The redhead sized Owen up for a few moments before replying. “Irene Watson,” she said in a perfect, posh, British accent. Owen gave her a look to say ‘Really?’ The girl shrugged. “You’re using a Russian alias. Why shouldn’t I use an English one?”

Owen rolled his eyes at her theatrics. “Very well then, _Irene_. What do you suppose we do now?”

The girl - Irene, Owen supposed he should think of her. “Finish your mission.” Again, Owen gave her that look. “What? Your government needs that information and my government is getting tired of hearing all of the prisoners bitch about each other.” This time, Owen looked at her like he was trying to read something on her face that he’d missed before, and Irene sighed in exasperation. “What now, Kuznetsov?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I just never thought I would hear the word ‘bitch’ fall from the mouth of someone who casually makes up an alias out of two Sherlock Holmes characters.” Irene’s cheeks colored slightly, and Owen grinned in mischief. “Very well then. I agree - my mission needs to be completed. The real question is, how do we go about completing it?”

Irene’s eyes lit up. “We kidnap Anatoli Volkov.”

(Owen knew there was a reason his stomach had a bad feeling when he first saw her.)

* * *

“Do I need to ask you again how we got into this mess?”

Irene rolled her eyes - a fact Owen was sure of, even though he couldn’t see her face as they were tied back-to-back to chairs. “Perhaps, if you were a better spy, then I would not have needed to intervene in the first place.”

Owen twisted around in a vain attempt to look at her better. “You’re barely a teenager! You’ve got to be what, fifteen, sixteen?”

Even in his awkward position, Owen could see her cheeks color. “Sixteen in two months,” Irene replied in a semi-small voice. When Owen scoffed in order to show he thought he was right, Irene twisted around to look at him. “And you are twenty! Do not lie, I have seen your file! You are barely four years older than I am, and yet you think to be a better spy than I am!”

He huffed out a breath, turning back around in his chair. “Very well. We’re both very inexperienced and in no way qualified for this mission. Now, how do we get ourselves out of this mess?” This mess, of course, being the fact that they were currently tied up in a very cold basement having been kidnapped by Anatoli Volkov’s men after a failed kidnapping attempt on the _gulag_ warden.

Irene turned back around in her chair, fiddling around a little while apparently looking for something on her person. “Well,” she said, turned her head towards Owen. “I still have my knife. We can use that to cut ourselves free - start there, and then move forwards.” She fiddled in the chair again, stopping suddenly after a few moments. “I have a request to make of you,” Irene said, sounding sort of… awkward as she did.

Owen turned his head towards her when she didn’t speak for a few moments. “Well? What is is?”

She cleared her throat. “I cannot reach it. I need you to retrieve my knife.”

He sighed internally, looking towards the ceiling. “Very well, where is it?”

“In my belt,” Irene said, now doing her best not to look at Owen. “I cannot bend my hands far enough to reach it myself. You are in a better position to retrieve it than I am.”

Owen smiled to himself. “You don’t have to explain yourself, you know. All you had to do was tell me where it was.” He twisted his hands, feeling around the fabric belt of Irene’s dress until he felt the knife’s outline. Carefully, Owen pulled it out from beneath the belt. “Got it,” he said, triumphant, and immediately set about cutting his hands free. Once they were free, Owen cut the ropes around his ankles. He turned around, frowning when he saw Irene holding her hands out expectantly behind her. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to give me the knife so I can cut myself free,” Irene replied, still holding her hands out to Owen.

Owen brought a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “What do you think I am, a barbarian? I’ll cut you free,” he said, kneeling on the cold floor in order to better reach her hands. He set about cutting the ropes around Irene’s hands, despite her protests that she was perfectly capable of setting herself free, thank you very much. Once her hands were free, Owen moved to cut the ropes around her ankles, only to have Irene stop him and hold a hand out for the knife.

“I can cut myself free,” she said, and Owen wasn’t going to argue with the look in her eyes. He handed her the knife, and Irene cut herself free, replacing the knife when she was done with it. “Now what?”

“Find Volkov, get the information, then get the bloody hell out of this Godforsaken town.” Owen walked over to the only door to the room, jiggling the handle just in case their captors had been stupid enough to leave it unlocked. He sighed, stepping away from it as it turned out to be locked. “Wouldn’t happen to have a lock picking set on you, would you?”

Irene shook her head, moving towards the room’s only window as Owen inspected the walls around the door. “Afraid I left it in my other dress.” Owen turned to Irene with a grin, one that she returned wholeheartedly. “It’s funny,” she continued, making Owen glance at her as she spoke. “I didn’t think that saving your life would lead to so much pain and suffering on my part.” Irene gave Owen what he would later describe to himself as a shit-eating grin.

“Would’ve been easier to let Volkov kill me, eh?” Owen pressed against random parts of the walls, hoping that some sort of secret door or passageway would open up in front of him.

“Perhaps,” Irene said, then let out a pleased “ah!” as the wall gave way in front of her to reveal a passageway. Owen rushed over, and the two of them poked their heads into the passage. “Shall we, Mister Kuznetsov?”

Owen gestured to the passage before them. “Lead the way, Miss Watson.”

* * *

The reason for the comfort in the lilt of Irene’s voice is a mystery to Owen when she addresses him after a mission well done. Well, relatively well done if one ignores the glaring fact that Owen was nearly killed and would have been without Irene’s intervention.

They retrieve the necessary information from Volkov, at gunpoint - Irene’s idea not Owen’s. The _gulag_ warden was more scared of her than he was of the MI6 agent, which may have had something to do with Owen’s lack of reputation. Back to the point, Owen retrieved the information, sent it back home through the proper channels so that the data could be analyzed and used to their advantage, and all with only two casualties and seven hospitalizing injuries. (That number didn’t include the number of just inconvenient injuries - those may have numbered well above the twenties.)

Still, it didn’t explain to Owen why he was still “hanging out” with Irene once the mission was over and the immediate danger far behind them.

“I’m impressed,” Irene began, once the two of them were safe in a motel room more than thirty miles away from Kyrsk. She had already made herself comfortable, still fancily dressed in her dress from the political event but her heels having been tossed to the other end of the room. Irene laid on one side of the Queen-sized bed - a perk of pretending to be a newly married couple.

Owen looked up from where he was taking off his shoes, confused by Irene’s statement. “Impressed about what? I completely botched not only my mission but your’s as well. I don’t see anything for you to be impressed by, to be honest.” He tossed his shoe to the ground, bringing his other foot up to undo the laces.

Irene rolled her eyes, rolling over on the bed beside Owen as well. “That’s not what I’m impressed about. Your skills as a spy leave much to be desired -”

“- thanks, love,” Owen said dryly, tossing down his other shoe.

“- but your manners as a gentleman are everything a woman could ask for.” She sat up, cross-legged and turning to face Owen, though all she could see of him was his back and the back of his head. “Why have you not asked to sleep with me?”

Owen shuddered dramatically. “For one, you are underage, and though you will become a beautiful woman someday, I have no desire to sleep with you.”

Irene narrowed her eyes at him, clearly reading something between the lines of Owen’s statement. “You are a homosexual,” she stated, a smile on her face. Owen avoided her eyes, and her smile softened, not menacing but warm and kind. “I must admit, I have never met a male homosexual before. Generally all of the ones I meet I am meant to seduce, so forgive me for seeming forward.”

“It’s not that I don’t like women in bed,” Owen started, picking at imaginary lint on the bed covers. “It’s more that I prefer _men_ in bed over women in bed.”

Irene hummed. “Is there anyone in particular that you would like to share your bed?”

Owen shook his head, a smile growing on his face. “Oh no, I’m not having this conversation with you, Miss Watson. We may be pretending to be married for the moment, but there is no way I am discussing this with you.”

She rolled her eyes, punching Owen’s arm. “I will most likely never see you again, and I think you are a good man who does not deserve the horrors that this job will bring you,” Irene said, her tone far more serious than it had been. Owen didn’t look at her, but he suddenly got the feeling that Irene had been doing this for longer than she let Owen think. “I think is only fair that a man like that should get _anything_ he wants, even in bed,” she continued, a playful smile on her face. “Now, tell me about this man.”

Again, Owen shook his head, this time turning to face Irene. “What makes you think that it’s a man that I fancy?”

“You just said that you prefer men over women in bed,” Irene replied, her tone as dry as the Sahara desert. “Therefore, the logical conclusion is that there is a man you wish to bed. Now, again, tell me about this man.”

Owen blushed, and Irene knew that she had hit the nail on the head, so to speak. “He’s not very… polite. He’s crass and brusque, has no manners whatsoever. If the world were ending and the way of the gentleman left to him to pass on, chivalry would die at his hands.” Irene smiled, gesturing for him to go on, and Owen relented. “He was kind to me, he made me feel like I was a part of the team even though he’d only known me for a few hours at most.”

Irene hummed despite herself. “He sounds like a real catch. Is he interested in you, or men at all for that matter?” Owen shrugged noncommittally, and Irene smacked him on the arm. “These are things you need to know before you go and start fantasizing about someone in bed! It helps to avoid heartbreak later on,” she said wisely, though Owen wasn’t certain she knew exactly what she was talking about, most especially in the area of romantic relationships.

“He didn’t turn me away,” Owen offered in response, though he knew that it wasn’t enough. “Alright, so I didn’t exactly throw myself at his feet, begging for him to take me away.” Irene let out a small laugh despite herself, and Owen’s cheeks colored. “What’s so funny?”

She waved a hand, attempting to collect herself. “He’s an _American_ ,” she said, as if that explained everything. “He didn’t turn you away because he needed the fuel for his ego.” Owen pouted, sticking his bottom lip out in a way that made him look five years old. “Why are you upset?”

Owen crossed his arms, and Irene had to hold in another laugh. “I said nothing about him being an American,” he explained, frowning deeply.

Irene patted his arm fondly. “He didn’t turn you away and he has no manners to speak of - of course he is an American!” Owen’s frown deepened impossibly, and Irene made to change the subject, obviously letting Owen keep some of his privacy. “What about you, Kuznetsov? Do you have any questions for me?”

He twisted his face in concentration, taking her question very seriously. Despite the risks his only question posed, Owen figured the chance of them ever meeting again was slim to none. “How does a fifteen almost sixteen year old end up as a spy for the KGB?” When Irene’s expression became closed off, Owen raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say you had to answer, I just thought you should know what was on my mind.”

“It wasn’t voluntary if that is what you are suggesting,” Irene nearly spat at Owen, and just like that, the air of camaraderie that had surrounded them disappeared, leaving the room several degrees colder than it had been. She sighed after nearly a full minute of silence between them. “I didn’t mean to snap, I just do not like to talk about it.”

Owen nodded. “I understand - I shouldn’t have asked.” He half-smiled, and Irene wondered in the back of her mind how the American agent didn’t fall to _his_ knees and beg for Owen to have him. “Shall we attempt to get some rest before our respective governments come after us with torches and pitchforks?”

* * *

He felt the bed dip around three in the morning, and he had to hold in a sigh of relief in Irene’s decision to finally _make_ a decision. She had been fidgeting in the bed for nearly an hour, and Owen would have preferred that she make a move sooner so he could either go back to sleep or fight her in order to stay alive and then go back to sleep.

Judging by the lack of sounds that resembled weapons, Irene had chosen to leave Owen alive and return to her handlers to discuss her mission failure. Owen wondered if they ever would meet again,  though he didn’t plan on the eventuality.

It was only after the motel door clicked shut and Owen counted ten minutes after that that he even considered going back to sleep. They may be familiar with each other, bonds in the heat of battle or something like that, but Owen wasn’t about to let his guard down around a KGB assassin.

He fell back into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of red haired angels.

**Author's Note:**

> Irene Watson - I couldn't resist. 
> 
> feel free to comment or review, leave a kudos if you want. I won't be offended if you don't, I promise


End file.
